


rest🛌

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Horror, Medical Experimentation, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Skin-Crawly, Spooky, Surrealism, a bunch of terrifying af things that happen while the poor guy is in a nightmare, no happy ending in sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24704242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Desperate for rest, Malcolm takes a sedative. He's not that lucky.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	rest🛌

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts).



> i still can't believe it, but Jameena specifically asked for a spooky story. so, you asked for it, i guess? <3 you friend.

Naps filled with rest, Malcolm had been promised. "It's what your body _needs_ ," Gabrielle had stressed. She'd left the decision up to him, but she'd heavily implied reconsidering a sedative as a short term option for a few consecutive days of sleep was in his best interest.

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't argue. Functioning was a struggle, his concentration shattered to a heavily caffeinated burst of thoughts bouncing his speech around the room until someone stopped him, refocused his ideas, and he tried again.

Gil didn't pull him aside, but his looks alone gave away the cavernous depth of his worry, how serious the situation must be from an outsider's perspective looking in. It was scary enough behind the scenes of the horror movie — he couldn't imagine watching.

Out of options, Malcolm took the sedative. Lowered his head into his pillow, double-checked his restraints, and settled in to an early evening sleep.

Could he have butterflies, all their colors wilder than Sunshine floating in the light breeze? Dandelions, every wish he made eventually coming true and growing more? Or even common sheep, their fuzzy coats jumping around in cartoonish glee.

He couldn't be that lucky.

Cuffed to his desk, body dangling on the floor, try as he might, there wasn't anywhere he could go. A dagger lay beside his free hand, taunting, reminding _you know what to do_. Did he? Turning away, he just wanted sleep.

He eyed the spot he'd hammered to escape the madman, thinking perhaps it would save him again. Thrusting the gleaming dagger into his hand, oily black poured out, descending into rivers down his arm that would repaint the full Le Mans. Spiders unfurled out by his elbow, a million babies skittering into corners the light couldn't reach. Watching, waiting for a moment distraction would catch his attention, and plunging fangs into his tepid flesh, devouring every last drop of his lifeblood.

A captive audience, he spectated their lunch, evaluating their efficiency for picking his bones clean. All his juicy secrets made them plump, tottering as they kept gorging on more. So many arachnids, the floor pulsed eating pieces of him until every last bit disappeared.

It was weird how shifting happened so easily, victim into perpetrator, parts reassembling until he loomed over his father in a suit of station wagon doors, hefty chains, and medical screws. Slash of a stray scalpel, and The Surgeon fell, leaving Dr. Whitly behind. Stab — Martin. _Swish_ — father. Swing — dad. Each subsequent slice revealing a new facet of a man springing to life as another passed, potter's wheel spinning ready to pop up the next.

"Clay time, my boy." Dr. Whitly threw another identity, it's face warm and smiling. "Pre-heat the kiln — don't let it get too crispy like my vegan lasagna. Don't want dad melting."

Rows of busts of Dr. Whitly looked back at him, skin pouring to the floor, revealing fresh layers of tragedy. Malcolm's face, trapped inside, baking in a crimson glaze. A whole plaza dedicated to like father, nearing the surface temperature of the sun.

Plunged straight into a cold bath to produce cracks, the surface marred with missing noses, ears, an axe through the skull — a conglomeration of weathered Greek statutes, elevating the nightmare of a father to god status.

"These aren't any good," Dr. Whitly said, smashing the scarred heads into the floor. Yet when Malcolm looked, it was only his own visage crumbling to thousands of bits hit after hit, nothing left anymore.

 _Whir_ and _swish_ and _slash_ and _squish_ he fought to escape each death, yet with demon eyes and a catlike smile, his father kept coming back.

Laying in the hospital, scarred and nearly dead, his father's hands cutting him open, attempting to repair what was left. Ignoring the anesthesiologist's wishes that the surgeon needed to close, gloved digits inspected his insides, seeing if he was up to snuff.

"This isn't a Whitly heart — too weak. Get that from your mother," Dr. Whitly assessed. "Kidney? Probably don't need that one. Let's give your spleen a tune up while you're here. Any special requests? More ab definition?"

Screaming, Malcolm heard only roaring silence, taking him to the clouds. A whole world left underneath him made entirely of Dr. Whitly clones. Treetops of wiry salt-and-pepper curls, volcanoes spewing blood. Lands carved from drawing pencils, rivers raging ruddy brown.

Yet his perch, it wasn't steady, and from the top he fell. A wailing cry pierced through the sky as he plunged back into hell. Everything Dr. Whitly, there wasn't anywhere left to look. Like father, like son, the only reminder, eyes sprung wide, permanently spooked.

He banged doors carved with medical details, rattled wind chimes of iridescent sporks. Crunched stones of every meal they'd eaten together since twice every ten became a thing. Hid in rancid dumpsters to avoid guards made of scalpels only to find they were papered with Dr. Whitly's drawings.

If he released his anguish in bellowing bleats, would anyone realize something was wrong? Was there anyone out there outside the never-ending tunnel his life dragged along? Could they hear his cries? Did they mean anything?

Speakers blasted Jim Croce at a volume only Malcolm could hear. Words on the tip of his tongue, familiar notes slit his throat, broken glass removing his ability to appeal.

Desperate to escape, he scratched for anyone that would help. "Hey, kid," pulled him by the back of the neck, limbs sprawling like a mewling cat. The world spun and blurred, and his stomach lurched as he woke in a tangle in bed.

Scrambling to undo his cuffs, he knocked his pillows aside. Staring up beside him was a wayward dagger, glimmering in the streetlight.

He didn't make the toilet, spewing on the hardwood floor and doubling over, his body trying to release more.

But he couldn't. He and his father were forever entwined, bound and left for dead. All he could do was manage, and that didn't come with rest.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
